


Fumbling

by azira_fail



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, my emotionally constipated kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azira_fail/pseuds/azira_fail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had sat in the Bentley for seven minutes before actually starting the ignition and driving away. The rain pounded mercilessly on the metal roof as he remained motionless in the front seat, contemplating. <br/>Had Aziraphale lost his mind? As if he would even know what anger felt like, the bloody optimist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fumbling

**Author's Note:**

> Hey kids! This is my first published fanfiction so any feedback would be super appreciated. I hope you all enjoy, thank you so much!

Crowley had never liked books. 

Perhaps that was the main reason for his falling, after the rather obvious pleasure he took in smiting people. Heaven was frankly boring, and there wasn't much to do but read. He found books to be trivial and dull, a sad comparison to the wonders of television, which presented one with all the information and sinful visuals of books, but required much less effort. For whatever reason though, they appeared to matter a great deal to Aziraphale, who had dedicated all of his spare time (and some of Crowley's) to expanding his collection.

The angel's reaction upon discovering the ruins of his precious shop had been nothing like what the demon had predicted when he awkwardly mentioned it. He had smiled cheerily and said something like,"Out with the old, in with the older!", and then four months later, after having read his way through all of Adam’s new installments, disappeared with no further explanations. 

It was seven days, one phone call, and a 10 minute drive through pelting hail later that Crowley found the reason for his friend's absence, in piles around the renovated bookshop. 

"Oh no," he grumbled, gaze flickering over the multiple towers of boxes and books scattered throughout the previously organised small space.

"I'm terribly sorry for being so secretive," Aziraphale said, pressing a cup of cocoa into Crowley's square hands as he shut the door against the frigid wind that had disturbed the papers and dust in his warm home. "It was quite a long process, getting these down here, and I figured I'd get more help doing so if I avoided gallivanting around with hellspawn in the meantime."

Inhaling deeply, Crowley nodded and removed his scarf. The dark blues and penetrating late winter weather outside contrasted so distinctly with the near-smothering warmth and homeliness of the angel’s residence. The fireplace in the corner cast dancing shadows on the worn wooden counter, and added a smokiness to the usual scent of shortbread, cocoa, and musk. 

The tranquil setting was disturbed by the sound of Aziraphale impatiently clearing his throat.

“If you don’t mind, dear boy, coming upstairs with me briefly? I have some old Romanian manuscripts in the attic that I can’t quite retrieve on my own.”

“Of course,” the demon grumbled, setting down his mug on what appeared to be a precarious stack of 80’s-era harlequin romances. “Let the hellspawn do all the heavy lifting.”

Aziraphale had reached the top of the flight of stairs leading to his flat and decidedly ignored Crowley’s sarcastic remark. “You know those monks,” Aziraphale said cheerfully instead, as he pulled the attic ladder down from his never-used second floor bedroom’s ceiling, “Never could resist those precious metals. Beautiful scripture and presentation, but quite heavy I’m afraid.”

Crowley had stopped caring and was no longer listening, but held the ladder nonetheless as Aziraphale’s long frame ascended into the attic. There was a thumping, shuffling, and an “Oh!”, and then a cluster of crumbling parchments were thrust down in front of Crowley’s nose.

“Letters from admirers in Greece!” Aziraphale’s muffled voice said in response to the lack of questioning on the demon’s part. Crowley furrowed his eyebrows behind his dark lenses, and pursed his lips as he tossed the bundle carelessly onto the bed. Aziraphale had been  _ very _ popular in Greece around 7th century BC., with his golden curls, sloping nose, and bowed lips. It was one of the few times in history, Crowley liked to tell himself, that the innocent beauty of the angel had won over his own sinful handsomeness.

“Aha!” Another cry from Aziraphale. “Shakespeare’s sonnets-rough drafts, mind you.” 

Another bunch of ancient papers were shoved at Crowley. He set them down, and began tuning out again as the angel started dropping the monks’ twenty to thirty pound metal-and-jewel-and-leather-covered writings into his arms. All the while, he rambled on about how he didn’t  _ want _ Shakespeare’s junk but had taken it anyways out of curiousity, and how that actually was a good way to interpret another funny incident from those times, but Crowley wasn’t listening. He was glaring threateningly at the Grecian love proclamations and contemplating “accidentally” throwing them into the fire downstairs, when, with a loud ‘pop’, the lights went out in perfect synchrony. 

It took a few seconds, but his eyes adjusted soon enough. He set the books down on the floor with a thump and walked over to the window facing their neighboring building, whose windows were also dark. Great. The storm must have disrupted something in the power system- he’d have to go try with the fuse box and-

“Crowley?”

“What, angel,” he hissed, ruffled.

“H-Help me down.”

It was then that he remembered that one’s abilities changed upon descending, and the angel may not be able to see in the murky dark as well as he could. Aziraphale's long feet touched cautiously at the top rung of the ladder, as if testing water for sharks. 

Crowley snickered but leant forward to grab the sides of the ladder with both hands. “You’re afraid of the dark?”

“You don’t happen to be blinded by this!” Aziraphale’s voice had gotten substantially higher “It’s incredibly vexing!”

“Oh, stop whining, I’m holding the ladder. I have the right to tease.” 

The feet prudently stepped down a few more rungs.

“You’re halfway down.”

“Where are you?”

Crowley stared at the buttoned-up cardigan that tickled his nose. “In front of your stomach.”

One of the angel’s ghost-like hands reached out from above to find Crowley’s shoulder and upon doing so, let go of the ladder to place his other hand on him as well.

“No- wait- Az-!”

The words went unheeded as Aziraphale, full of grace and nobility as any angel should be, tripped over his own feet and tumbled awkwardly down, his lean arms pinning the demon to the wardrobe that stood behind them as he fell face first onto Crowley’s...face.

_ Oh. _

It lasted half a second. Less. But as the angel fell forward, his warm, soft mouth had…substantially brushed…Crowley’s parted lips. 

Crowley reacted quickly, pulse racing as he grabbed the angel’s goosebump-covered forearms to keep them both from crashing into the floor. In the process, he felt his shades knock free of his face, and heard them land with a clatter, revealing his yellow reptilian eyes that in the blackness shone as brightly as- 

“Torches.” Aziraphale breathed haltingly. 

Crowley blinked. “Pardon?”

“Your eyes!” The angel had begun to laugh, his own reading glasses slipping down his nose. “Look at them! They’re making beams!”

The demon redirected his gaze from his friend’s face to the far wall, where two glowing yellow spots sat directly parallel to him. Yes, okay, his eyes did rather resemble torches in their ability to project light, but they had always been like this; it certainly wasn’t as amusing as the angel thought it was. Maybe he was in shock. Besides, he was sure many other demons-- Wait.

Crowley looked down at the mirth-ridden being sitting on the floor in front of his legs who, in the midst of his giggle-fit, had snorted. He blinked in disbelief at this supposedly celestial creature who had just proven himself to be afraid of the dark, remarkably clumsy, and now -it really was incomprehensible- an even bigger dork than originally thought.

The demon felt his throat tighten and his face flush with what he was sure was contempt. Voice hoarse, he cleared his throat and demanded Aziraphale collect himself. He rose and sauntered down the hall to fiddle with the fuse box. 

After a few fizzles, clicks, and a string of words that made Aziraphale cringe in the dimness, the bulbs overhead flickered hesitantly, and returned with a hum, revealing a shaken angel and a demon with a newfound air of cockiness striding toward him.

“So,” Crowley miracled on another pair of reflective sunglasses with a smirk. “I’d say you owe me a couple favours at this point,  _ dear. _ ”

Aziraphale stood and sighed, pulling his lower lip through his teeth in a way that made Crowley’s stomach flutter horribly. 

“Yes, dear boy, I suppose so. Could you at the very least finish the promised task at hand before daydreaming up some ridiculous feat you wish for me to preform?”

Sighing exaggeratedly, Crowley knelt and, with a grunt, lifted the three outrageously large books off the ground, leaving Aziraphale to gather the papers left on the cream comforter. 

Once they had struggled downstairs and gone through the effort of hiding the scriptures on shelves well out of any chance for seeing, the demon was quick to snatch up his lukewarm chocolate and Aziraphale’s letters from the mantle of the fireplace. 

“My  _ dearest _ Aziraphale,” his voice boomed, making the fine hairs on the back of the angel’s neck stand to attention as he realised what his impish friend had gotten ahold of. “I doubt I shall ever see you again, though the images of your sapphire eyes and delicately sculpted body shall remain with me until the day I cease to be.” Crowley stepped up onto the coffee table, clucking mockingly at the angel. 

“Naughty, naughty, Aziraphale.”

He took a sip of cocoa and continued on his tiptoes as Aziraphale reached for the letter in vain. 

“I fear I will forget the melody of your voice”, he went on, “that rang sweeter in my ears than any sound even the gods could provide me with. Thinking of you now, my heart races- Will you get your fingers out of my mouth, angel, thank you- My heart races with the recollection of your whisper soft touches -really, Aziraphale, lust is a sin...” his voice lost its dramatic flair and volume as he read on. “I will never find another who could make me blush with a glance, nor make my throat close at the sound of my own name as you have managed to.”

Aziraphale had sensed Crowley’s dwindling enthusiasm and relaxed, hands resting gently on the demon’s neck and slackened chest. Crowley lowered his arm and looked down quizzically. “I thought you said these were letters of admiration?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You thought they fancied you, correct? This is all pure scorn.”

Aziraphale was looking at him as if he had just proclaimed he was painting the Bentley pink and pursuing a career as a rap artist. “Come again, dear?”

“Scorn!” Crowley stepped down, exasperated. “All of these…” he waved his hand “... symptoms! Tense throat, blood in the face, increased heart rate,” he shuffled through the other letters. “Sweaty palms, aching chest. That’s not love, that’s anger! Annoyance! Disgust!”

Understanding dawned on Aziraphale's face, followed quickly by amusement.

“My dear boy, are you telling me that in all of your time spent on earth, you have never found love?”

Crowley let out a sharp laugh. “Demons don’t fall in love,” he scoffed, flinging the letters up and letting them fall like confetti as he threw himself into a mock-sensual position on the couch facing Aziraphale.

“We only feel lussssssst,” he purred, running his forked tongue over his enhanced canines. The orange glow of the fire cast an odd hue to Aziraphale’s cheeks, almost pink.

“Have you ever lain with a human, then?”

Crowley’s confidence evaporated. Scrambling, he stood up quickly, arms crossed as a deep red crept across his olive-skinned face. “Of-Of course.” He coughed unconvincingly. “All the time.”

Aziraphale’s rosy lips curved into a smile as he raised his eyebrows in an expression that clearly said  _ “I know you’re full of shit, but I’m not going to say anything because I am an honorable child of God.” _

Needless to say, Crowley was not a fan of this particular face. He scowled and buttoned his jacket as he marched over to snatch his scarf off the coat rack. “If you don’t need anything else,” he knotted the scarf too tightly but didn’t want to risk looking a fool by adjusting it, “I’ll be heading out.”

Aziraphale smiled, flushed cheeks pushing up the corners of his startlingly blue eyes. Crowley’s stomach twisted again. 

“Have a good night then, dear. Do be careful driving in this weather.”

With a sharp nod, Crowley stepped out into the cold wetness of nighttime Soho, and was sure to slam the door behind him.

* * *

 

 

He had sat in the Bentley for seven minutes before actually starting the ignition and driving away. The rain pounded mercilessly on the metal roof as he remained motionless in the front seat, contemplating. 

Had Aziraphale lost his mind? As if he would even know what anger felt like, the bloody optimist. The demon scowled. He himself had experienced anger more than he personally would have liked; he got angry at his roses when Mrs. McNarry’s next door bloomed before them. He got angry at the weather when it was like this. He got very,  _ very  _ angry at his superiors who always interrupted his TV or radio with more complaints about his creative twists on damning people. Yes, he knew anger in all of its hot-faced chest-constricting glory.

But then… His face went slack again as he sank back into thought. The hot-faced chest-constricting feeling he felt around Aziraphale was… different. It was much more comparable to the feeling he got whenever he was stuck in horrible traffic, when “Another One Bites the Dust” would play in perfect synchrony to the sounds of cars crashing and honking as he barrelled through them. It was that anger, that thrill he got when doing something deliciously awful that he just adored. That he loved.

And it was in this moment that AJ Crowley realised that he was truly, in a word, fucked.


End file.
